


Bernoulli Would Be Weeping

by fansofcollisions



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:16:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fansofcollisions/pseuds/fansofcollisions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel runs across an interesting old photograph in his latest Biggerson's hideout. Location? Black Rock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bernoulli Would Be Weeping

BLACK ROCK, NEW YORK

“We haven’t got any tables open now, hun, but if you could wait just a few minutes, Wanda’ll have the rest of them cleaned up in a jiffy!”

Castiel nodded his consent, barely glancing at the Biggerson’s hostess. Waiting wasn’t a problem. Seemed like that was doing these days. Besides, chances were he’d be gone before ‘Wanda’ had even finished porting the dishes to the kitchen.

They were getting closer.

A flood of new arrivals pushed past Castiel, a birthday party full of yelling adolescents and harried parents with tight smiles. He decided to move to a lower traffic spot in lieu of being trampled by the more rambunctious members of the group. There was a little alcove to the side where benches and a few uncomfortable looking chairs sat for the convenience of waiting customers like himself, though the layers of dust on most told him that customer flow through this particular restaurant had been waning as of late.

The walls of the alcove were lined with plaques and picture frames. He examined each with a methodical interest born of a need to feel inconspicuous, more inconspicuous than he’d feel sitting on the bench with folded hands, a strange man in a fraying trench coat watching a muddle of schoolchildren scream and laugh.

One commemorated the opening of this particular branch of Biggerson’s, complete with photograph of the restaurant in its original state. Different colour scheme, but the shape of the building remained intact. Castiel was sure the piece was meant to invoke some sort of nostalgia but the effect was ruined somewhat by the sour expressions of the employees in the picture. Seemed that the chain hadn’t yet begun enforcing cheerfulness in its staff with all the metaphorical threat of a loaded gun.

Castiel moved down the line. Sanitation certifications, community awards, a vast section of past employees of the month, framed newspaper clippings. All utterly unremarkable, and while he made a show of examining each closely, his mind was more focused on perceiving the subtle changes in pressure and resonance which allowed him to guess at his pursuers’ approach.

The last piece on the wall was discreet in its presentation. No copper engraving, no frame. Just a photograph attached with putty, below it a small square of paper which read _1,000,000!_ followed by a smiley face drawn in pink Sharpie.

Castiel’s eyes widened. For staring out at him from the picture were two ghosts.

Sam’s face was screwed into a petulant expression, his whole posture exuding discomfort as he gripped one end of the giant cheque. Castiel could not help but smile fondly at the boy, at his youth and the fact that even now, his friend would make the oddest expressions in times of annoyance. Some things did not change.

And Dean. Dean’s face made his breath hitch in his throat. There was a light in his eyes in that photograph which Castiel had never seen. The brightness of his soul was shining through a face which portrayed a childlike glee at simple comforts, at a wonderful surprise after a long day. It was dazzling, and Castiel could feel his own face contort to match photograph Dean’s expression, his smile so full that his jaw ached from the unfamiliar form.

Castiel didn’t think that he’d smiled a true smile (not the wolfish smirk of a madman) since that night in the brothel, where Dean’s face had been glowing in much the same way, when the forces of Hell and the wrath of his brothers were swept away in unfamiliar feelings of camaraderie, a discovery of friendship which showed him he’d always misunderstood the meaning of the word. But he was grinning now, grinning as though he was the one with balloons showering down around him. That’s certainly what it felt like.

Because while he no longer believed in God, he still believed in miracles. And this? Finding this picture here, of all places, and of all the Biggerson’s he could have landed in that this particular one had no tables available? It was a blessing he did not deserve.

“Sir? We’ve got a seat for you now. …Sir?”

He reached a finger out to touch the fading ink. He half expected to fall through a portal to the past.

 _Untainted_. This was Sam before he’d willingly drawn demon blood into his veins. This was Dean before Hell had set their hooks into him and torn out every good thought and memory, every pleasant piece of himself. These were boys who still had reason to believe they deserved to be saved. They still supposed it was possible. Castiel’s heart ached for them.

“Are you alright, hun?” There was a hand on his shoulder now, and he turned to the concerned face of the hostess, motherly worry written all over her expression. It was only now he realized that his own face was wet.  What remained of his smile faded. He was a hapless, weary traveller again.

“Yes, I-“

There it was. A tremor at the subatomic level. His signal. Doubtless leaving behind a very confused woman, he found himself in Gary, Indiana. The Biggerson’s sign flickered above him. His breathing slowed as the energy hummed around him and he tried to dissipate the excess as quickly as possible. When everything had faded and he was convinced that his escape had been close, but successful, he glanced down.

In Castiel’s hand there was clutched a crumpled photograph. With care he smoothed it out on the bricks of a support column and slipped it into an inside pocket of his trenchcoat before walking into the restaurant.

xxx---xxx---xxx---xxx---xxx

Castiel knew it was foolish, potentially deadly, to establish any sort of pattern but there was one restaurant he came back to multiple times. He came to think of it as his. He reveled in the fact that the waitress remembered his face from last time. She even recalled the fake name he’d given her. He basked in some small semblance of belonging.

For that reason, he answered her honestly and without annoyance when she peeked over his shoulder to stare at what lay on the table before him.

“Who’re your friends?” she asked. “The tall one’s cute.” She winked.

“They’re not my friends.”

“Oh? Too bad,” she crowed, laughing at his expression, and Castiel thought about how this girl would never know what a privilege it was to be able to laugh without bitterness. He wondered the men in the photo would ever be able to again. He wondered if he would.

“They’re my family,” he said.

“Well, you’ve brought them to the right place, then.” She laughed again and gestured at the sign above the door. _Biggerson’s Family Restaurant_. “Tell you what, if they ever come around here, I’ll give ‘em free coffee. It would be more than worth it to see who could make someone as serious as you smile like that.”

“Am I smiling?” She nodded. And he found that he was.

Today was indeed a day of miracles.


End file.
